Pink Suit
by Jiang Qing
Summary: Just a quick, silly one-shot. Tom is having huge ego problems about Gatsby, and Nick does absolutely nothing to make him feel better. Well... he tries.


"An Oxford man? Like hell he is! He wears a pink suit!"

The very ground rumbled at these uttered words, and a bird hesitated so long before resuming the flapping of it's wings that it dropped from the sky like a feathered stone. Tom brushed the fresh corpse from his sleeve with an insufferable impatience, and I had to restrain myself from sweeping away a stray plume that had attached itself to his right trouser leg.

"Pink, Tom?" In a restrained effort not to further antagonise the situation, I decided to remain coolly detached from the heated anger from the man before me that was threatening to cause an early apocalypse. "Cherry blossom, amaranth or perhaps thulian, but I assure you Gatsby would not lower himself to wear such a gorgeous rag that bore the title of pink."

"Thulian, Nick?" Jordan questioned me, her voice rich and lilting against the bake of God's great fireball. "Surely thulian is too light to be dyed into such fine linen. If anything, I would guess it was cerise."

"Gatsby can do anything," I hurried to inform her, removing my hip from her gleefully grabbing hands. "If he wants a thulian suit, I'm sure then he can afford one. You see, he's so cool. He always looks so cool." I had just admitted that I loved him, but Jordan remained blissfully ignorant, swinging her slender brown arms through the thick dust in the air. Although she would appear to an onlooker as a lunatic, or perhaps someone with an accentuated nervous twitch, I made no effort to stop her as the breeze she was creating was rather pleasant. Unfortunately, as I took a step forward in order to catch the light waft around the region of my chin, I misjudged my pace and her hardened, weathered fist caught me in the eye. Ah! Blinded, but never blind.

Tom snorted. "Cool? You just directly quoted my wife. There's nothing cool about Gatsby. Or if there is, I'm far cooler than he will ever be."

"How so?" I wanted to remain detached from the scene, but my eye appeared to be bleeding and I had to distract myself from either howling with pain or striking the unaware Jordan back with some sort of large hammer. The question seemed to perplex Tom slightly; underneath his pack of muscle I could see the rise and fall of his abdomen, as if he thought heavy breathing was to provide him with extra brain power. The sweat from standing outside in the sun too long was beginning to run down his cheeks, and for a moment it looked as if he was crying from the exertion of finding a legitimate reason. He may not of been cool, but he was certainly very hot.

"I…" For a man so huge, his voice was a mere yellow squeak against the ash of the valley. "I…"

My wristwatch was most charming, and looking at it I was fully aware that neither Gatsby nor Daisy had yet come out of the house. The faintest stirring of unease shifted in my heart, and the sunny day suddenly felt grey with all the foreshadowing that was abundant in the very air we breathed. "Tom-"

"I have Daisy." The response was triumphant, if a trifle late. "I have Daisy! And that's what makes me cool! It makes me _awesome_!"

"Daisy?" Jordan gave a giggle. "It is rumoured that as soon as we stepped out of the house, Gatsby and Daisy ran out of the backdoor, jumped into Mr Gatsby's private plane, and are off to Bermuda to disappear forever!"

Tom and I stared at her, mouth agape. "Nonsense!" Tom finally blustered, a hint of panic twitching at his moustache, making it tango with deadly night fever. "Daisy would never…"

A sudden huge rumble blasted it's way across the sky, and shielding our eyes, all three of us looked heavenwards. A silver jet shot through the atmosphere, a streaming banner proclaiming: "Farewell Tom! Have a good life, and don't forget to feed Pammy when you can!"

The silence was extraordinary. Well indeed, there was nothing to be said. Tom stared up at the sky, his blue eyes moist, and for a moment I thought he was to cry. Inwardly I cringed and looked towards Jordan, of whom was now kicking the previous dead bird as if it was a football. Stupid women… but then again, I will not judge.

"Pammy?" His word was hoarse, as if it was a struggle to speak. His stare was fixed upon me and I shrugged.

"Your daughter. You and Daisy's daughter."

He nodded. "I see." A deep sigh came from his very bones. "I thought perhaps she meant the goldfish I bought for her on our second anniversary. She said it looked like a 'darling, darling little tangerine!' She then fished it from the water, kissed it, and it died. I didn't tell her though. I told her it was nocturnal."

How very like Daisy, I thought. To smash things up, and creatures, and then to retreat back to her money and her carelessness. No wonder women belonged in the kitchen. I secretly hoped Gatsby's was enormous. With plenty of limescale and a big greasy aga.

"Tom," I took out my handkerchief, and dabbed at his eyes. We had both lost our love today, and I had to fight not to dab at mine. "I'll take you home." Tom made no effort to move, so I gently took his face in my hand. Jordan had melted into a big puddle, which lapped at our feet. I had a little cheeky splash, then pointed at it and it all drained away. "Tom?"

"It's crazy." He was looking at me, but not really seeing. "It's all crazy. What will everyone think of me?"

I stroked his hand. "I think you're a rose, an absolute rose." Precarious, I let my lips brush his.

...

Can't change the past? Of course you can.

But first I'll let the bruises fade.


End file.
